


Always Waiting

by reapertownusa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Non Consensual, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-12
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 23:07:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/590680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapertownusa/pseuds/reapertownusa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean carries a piece of hell inside of him. When he's badly injured during a hunt, Alastair comes out to play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Non-con, torture, gore
> 
> Author's Note: This is a wishlist_fic prompt fill for a_phoenixdragon, who requested _Dean/John/Alistair - non/con - hellbased maybe (or hallucinations, that'd be lovely!) about 1,000 words._ I failed the 1K part, but the rest happened. And I did opt for hallucination so there is no actual evil John here, only memories of Alastair's delight in perversions.

The air was laden with dust, probably asbestos, but no sulfur. Dean kept reminding himself of that as he stared into the impenetrable darkness. He took another whiff just to be sure.

He tried to squirm from beneath the heavy beam that pinned him in place. It was old, rotted wood, not the unbreakable restraints of Alastair’s rack.

Chunks of crumpled ceiling and floor lay around him, weighed him down. It was moldy drywall and termite-infested floorboards, not flesh and bone. Not his flesh after a day of carving.

“Dean?”

Dean's eyes fluttered open. They were scratchy and raw and didn’t work anyway. Everything was still black, simultaneously claustrophobic and endless.

Hanging from the hooks, he’d called for his brother until his vocal cords had strained to silence and the bitter tang of blood had coated his throat. He tried to call for Sam now, this time to tell him to run, to save himself.

Sam shouldn’t be here no matter how desperately Dean needed him to be. There was no part of him worth saving. Nothing left to save.

Despite his efforts, no words came out. An attempt to suck in a breath left him coughing, ragged and desperate to pull air from the hollow vacuum.

“Dean!”

Sam’s voice was clear enough that Dean thought it might be real, not a trick. Not this time. He clung to the sound of his own name as he swam through the fog that had settled over his throbbing head. It was like quicksand. The harder he struggled against it, the deeper he sank.

Panic curled around him as he tried to stand, slip the rest of the way to the ground or turn on his side. He wanted anything other than to be pinned like this.

He could feel the ground beneath his boots, but he was bent forward over something. Not a rack. It was only coincidence that he was positioned for play like he had been on Alastair's special rack, which had given full access for Alastair to stick whatever he wanted in whatever hole he liked.

Dean shivered despite the heat or maybe because of the cold. He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t move.

He wanted off the rack. No, out from under the beam. He just wanted out.

His pulse thundered loud in his ears. Sweat dripped from his brow, stinging his eyes. It was too hot. Suffocating. Burning.

The space was too tight. His lungs didn’t have room to expand. Or maybe they were gone. He pulled in another breath to check that they were still there.

Crass music sliced through the silence. The sound was familiar enough to pull him back. It was only his ringtone, not Alastair’s casual humming as he coiled Dean’s intestines around his arm.

Dean grunted as he shifted, using all of the small range of motion he had to dig his numbing fingers into his pocket. He pulled out his phone. The light from the screen was blinding. He hit a button he couldn’t actually see and hoped for the best.

He couldn’t quite get it to his ear, but there was nothing down here aside from the shifts and creaks of fallen debris. Sam’s voice resonated loud and clear through the blackness.

“Dean? Thank God. Are you okay?”

“I can’t move,” Dean croaked the words, wasn’t sure he’d said them at all.

“Okay, just hold on. I’m trying to find a way down to you.”

The last thing he wanted was Sam down here with him. It was his place, not Sam’s, but Sam was right, he wasn’t strong enough. He couldn’t force himself to say what he should. Sam should leave him here to burn.

“I gotta get out of here.”

“Are you hurt?” Sam asked.

He squeezed his eyes closed against the spraying of blood, hot as molten lava, spewing over and from his flesh. Gashes deeper than muscle and pain that burned from the inside out, but wasn’t real. Wasn’t here. He could still feel it.

“Dean?”

“I don’t know. I just...I can’t move.”

“You said that already...” Sam’s voice trailed off, wallowing in worry he failed to suppress. “Can you feel your legs?”

His jeans were gone, denim replaced by a thick coating of blood. He felt the rivulets’ trails winding to pool over his feet, sticky and searing. He could smell it now — the sulfur and that stench ranker than death.

He felt the slice of the razor digging deeper and deeper until it came out the other side, sawing through what was left. He could see the claws and teeth of things in the dark clamoring for bits and pieces. Pieces of him.

“Yeah, Sammy. I can feel everything.”

It was getting hotter. The phone slipped from his slick fingers and fell into oblivion. A desperate sound rumbled in Dean’s throat as he uselessly reached for it. He didn’t hear it hit bottom, or know if there was one.

A cool hand set on the nape of his neck, rough fingers caressing. “You won’t be needing that, son.”

Dean stiffened beneath the familiar touch. Revulsion warred with need for acknowledgement. It was cold comfort to drive the pain home.

He held his breath as the stiff bristles of a beard scratched against his bruised cheek. Whiskey-heavy breath assaulted his nostrils as the disappointment in his father’s voice beat against his eardrums.

“Running blindly into a condemned building after a rakshasa?” Dad huffed and pulled away, anger no longer concealed. A fist cracked against Dean’s cheekbone and left him dazed. “I taught you better than that.”

Dean swallowed the blood in his mouth and blamed the force of the punch for the tickle of tears at the corner of his eyes. “Yes, sir.”

“What if the building had collapsed on Sam?”

Sam.

Dean couldn't remember where his brother was, only that Dad was right. Dean should have checked the structure or come without Sam. He should have tried harder. He should have been better.

Dad’s thumb ran over Dean’s lower lip, which was chapped but slick with blood. His panted breaths struggled for another lungful of burning air.

A hand wiped the dripping sweat from his brow. It wasn’t Dad’s hand. Sharpened claws dragged over his skin, slicing new lines of blood. The touch was hot, but left him chilled as it marked him as its own.

“It’s time for another lesson, wouldn’t you say?”

Dean tried to shake Alastair’s amused voice from his mind. The demon’s presence clawed and gutted, reaching beneath his skin to claim his thoughts and soul.

Alastair stood beside Dad, his hand resting possessively on his shoulder. Dean wanted to tell the son of a bitch to get his hands off Dad, but knew he had no voice here. Alastair and Dad both knew what he really was.

Dean shifted on the rack he was bent forward over. One hand dangled free, but the other was shackled out at his side. His legs were bound spread. Straps tightened over his lower back and neck, fastened so hard they dug into his bare flesh.

Only Dad stood in front of him now. He didn’t have to look to see where Alastair had gone. The points of the demon’s claws trailed over the exposed curve of his ass. Each prick fired a stabbing pain, unleashing fresh streams of blood.

The touch vanished for a moment, but not long enough for relief to come before the claws settled in the valley between his shoulder blades. One by one they stabbed into his flesh, gouging as they tore down his spine, slicing muscle clean from vertebrae with an agonizing slowness. The ignited fire of pain ripped a scream from his throat. 

In the distance, he heard Sam call back. A dying dream of a rescue that would never come.

He barely choked down a sob as Dad’s hand returned to the back of his neck. Strong fingers rubbed reassurances there, trying to soothe Dean with broken promises as Alastair’s claw traced down into the crease of his spread ass.

It felt as if he was being sliced in half, nerves screaming louder than his lungs were able. Already he was praying for oblivion and the demon was only slickening his entrance. This was Alastair’s foreplay.

Dean buried his cheek against the rough denim of Dad’s jeans. Even that phantom assurance was taken as Dad pulled away, crouching in front of him and leveling his piercing gaze with Dean’s.

Dean closed his eyes to avoid the sneer of disgust on his father’s face. All Dad’s training and Dean still couldn’t protect Sam. At least if he was lying here warming a demon's cock he couldn't be fucking anything else up.

Dad caught the tear that escaped from between Dean's tangled lashes, brushing his salty finger over Dean’s trembling lips. No, it wasn’t a finger. Dad was standing again.

Dean clenched his mouth closed, shaking his head as Dad tightened his grip on his jaw, pinching it open.

“Dad, please...”

His plea was strangled as strong fingers he didn’t dare bite down on, pried his mouth further open. Dean relaxed his jaw. It was just one more fight he’d fail to win.

Dean choked as Dad thrust in past his lips, the slick head of his cock stabbing against the back of his tight throat. Even knowing he deserved it, Dean’s free hand instinctively fought to push away the hips to find air beyond the musty curls hammering against his bloodied nose.

The things in the shadows laughed. They taunted perversions, promising even worse than the taste of his father’s pre-come on his tongue or the crook of the claw tearing inside him.

“This is your place,” Alastair said as he reached down to take Dean’s hardening cock into the scales of his palm. “The only place you’ll always be welcome.”

Dean’s wet cheeks flushed with shame at the heat building in his groin. Sweat mingled with tears and dripped from his quivering chin.

He couldn’t hear Sam anymore.

It was the one thing he could be thankful for as Dad gripped his hair hard enough to rip at his scalp. Dean’s jaw ached as the strong hips crushed forward to spill into his mouth, clogging his already raw throat. Dad’s cock remained there, twitching, reinforcing the one thing Dean was good for.

The rack rocked with the force of Alastair’s thrusts that tore through the sticky mess of blood his shredded innards had been sliced into. Dean screamed around his father’s still-hard cock before everything fell away.

The straps and oppressive weight on his back lifted. Dean gasped, greedily drawing in air to his starved lungs. He slipped down to rest on the ground, half kneeling, half crumpled on the floor. Only the rack propped him up as the world spun around him.

He tipped forward and threw up. Vomit burned his dry throat, the stench making his eyes water all the more. A hand rubbed circles over his back as the wrenching spasms in his gut eased. He tried to shake off the touch, but was too busy spitting the taste of his father’s come from his tongue.

Hands that were too gentle wiped the blood from his brow as it dripped into his blurry eyes. Dean blinked as he slowly realized that light had returned.

He squinted against the sunlight pouring in through a door. He looked to his side to find that he was leaning against a pile of debris and glanced up to see a hole in the ceiling.

He didn’t remember where here was. Didn’t matter. It probably wasn’t real anyway.

An arm wrapped around him, bunching the jacket and shirts that again covered his back. He turned his head to see Sam crouched beside him. The seemingly distant voice grew clearer.

“What happened?” Sam asked.

Dean looked around as if he’d find the answer strewn in the rubble they sat in. There was nothing. He sagged against his brother’s support. It felt solid.

“Sammy? How’re you here?”

Sam squeezed his shoulder. The touch felt real.

“I found a backdoor.”

The heat was gone as cool air blew in through that door. The fresh breeze cleansed the remains of the sulfur and danced cold over his moist cheeks. He shivered, exhaustion seeping into his bones. Sam pulled him closer, coddling him like a damn china doll.

He should be stronger.

Sam would leave him here in the debris if he knew what was really inside of him, but even through his confusion, the overwhelming worry on Sam’s face still registered.

“Dean...”

“What?” Dean swiped at his cheeks and struggled to sit up. “I’m fine.”

Sam reached forward to grab something. A cell phone. He raised a worried brow to Dean and closed the phone before nodding towards it.

“I heard what you said. I heard you—”

“I said I’m fine.”

Dean tried to snap, but stumbled on his own words. Sam sat quietly beside him as Dean choked the last of the dust from his lungs. When he could again focus his eyes, Sam’s expression was far too complex for him to process.

“Okay, but you don’t have to be.”

There was a poignant pause like Sam’s statement should’ve meant something. Maybe it did, but Dean could barely make out the individual words.

Sam slid his arm around Dean’s waist then hesitated. Dean held his breath, waiting for his brother to figure it out, to toss him aside and walk away.

“Is your back okay?” Sam asked.

Until Sam had mentioned it, Dean hadn’t felt the throbbing pain radiating from his shoulders down to the small of his back. His spine should be lying somewhere on the floor, but it wasn’t and his back was the least of the pain burning through him.

The full implications of Sam’s question finally caught up to him and Dean shook his head, instantly regretting the slight movement. “It’s not broken.”

Dean choked on a dark laugh. Everything was broken and it was stupid and pointless to try to put it back together again. But he’d do it anyway, not because he cared, but because there wasn’t anything else to do. Because Sam needed him to.

“Come on.” Sam carefully hauled Dean up, too careful to make sense here. “We gotta get you to a hospital.”

Dean swallowed down another wave of nausea as he stumbled to get his feet beneath him. He froze as he saw Alastair watching from the corner. They would come for him in a hospital, they had before. They'd strap him down on the bed and tear him away piece by piece while Sam slept in the chair beside him.

“No,” Dean said. “Don’t...”

“Dean, your pupils are dilated, you’re talking to Dad and you can’t even stand.”

“I’m fine.”

“Yeah?” Sam asked. “Well, how many fingers am I holding up?”

Dean looked at the hand held in his face. He couldn’t tell how many fingers were there. He was too busy fighting off that nagging voice in the back of his mind that asked if the hand was really there at all.

Alastair chuckled. The sound resonated inside of Dean and clenched his churning stomach tighter. Dean raised his head, watching the demon warily as Sam looped his arm around his shoulder and steered him towards the door.

“Go on now, son,” Alastair said. “We’ll be here waiting. Just like we always are.”


End file.
